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La guerra di Piero

Fabrizio De André
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KELARTICO / KELARTIC
PETE'S WARTO VOGĒR NĂ PĂYRE
  
Lying down buried in a field of ryeŬmusăz hamā in akor nă rān,
't's neither the rose's nor the tulip's eyenăsī to rōze, năsī to duilbān
Watching your sleep in the ditches' ol' bedsyegvĭllă tă ap n'hussāi to moken
But it's a thousand red poppies insteadal să hoyl paupagān drăken.
  
"Down by the banks of the stream in my townAnăr to spunāi nă mān trēnore
I want the silvery pikes to swim downvūll syetēndă illukāi gesŭnore
No more the corpses of soldiers laid lownăpyŏs to kŭrgsāi nă soldātāi
Carried along by the slithering flow"ap to sūtrem gelād in harnāi.
  
That's what you said during Winter's cold kissTevel dāynez in dyēn nă ventŭs
And like the others straight toward the abyssgo kā t'ollŏsāi adpăr to miendŭs
Sadly you go forth like someone who mustgīz getālistāt kā ces brauk gīstāi,
Wind's spitting snow in your face with a gustto vănd tă spăd in to kăr snyāg.
  
Pete you should stop now, stop right awayStāi in Păyre! Stāi in nŭnema
Let the wind blow on your skin while you maytadni to vănd syetāne līg dema,
Let it relay you the voice of the deadnă mārdāi’n vogēr brēz to flŏssăn,
Who gave his life got a cross back insteadces syedudā gvīn hā syăc eno krŏssăn.
  
You did not hear it though time just went byАl năkudvāst yă, to zemān pērane
Along with the seasons you'd march in a linesăm to yasadāi kā zyāva endaltāne
Till you arrived at the border gatewaygo dudŭlevāst im părsyepēraz lanvăr
It was a pleasant and sunny Spring dayin en’ dyēn arvēn nă pranvăr.
  
While you were marching your soul on your backGo zmenē marsynez săm lŏce gefārte
Y'spotted a man in the valley's dark crackgūmăn dărkvāst in băd nă to vālte
Inside he was feeling exactly like yousyedinge tān vīsdu mātig go smēlig
Except that his uniform differed in hueal t’univŏrmăn săm cende năttērig.
  
Shoot him now Pete with the shotgun you boreSīd in Păyre! Sīd in nŭnema!
Fire one shot and then keep shooting moreGo mon ‘no strāk, sīd in 'nākēma!
Till you will see him drop down in the mudBes syedărkăz yă vatelēme
Flat on the ground on top of his bloodpādūrus hamā, tūgūrus cān hēme.
  
"Now if I aim at his heart or his headGo yă ansīdăm in bozăm au’n kārd
I'll leave him time just to see that he's deadzemān nămeis syet im syepād mārd,
But I'll have time to look down where he liesal mă, to z'mān mă kalsye'm syedărkăm,
See for the first time a dying man's eyes"syedārkăm āpāin nă gūm mārdigankăm.
  
While you reflect on a kind way to killGo zmenē yă fauvăz kalandŭr tut
The other one sees you and turns in a chillne ŏmverăt, dărk tă go he baktūt
Taken his gun he gets ready to fightgo impărūrus to artillerīye
Pulls on the trigger, not quite as politetă ārnădā to kurtuazīye.
  
Y'dropped on the pavement without a moanPādvāst hamā aun eno darhūg
And understood in a moment alonego syavilvāst dŭmā’n eno dūg
You would not have enough time to pray forto z'mān tă syera năgingeterik
God to forgive all the sins that you boreim syevoskăz vien păr kāis masŭlerik.
  
Y'dropped on the pavement without a moanPādvāst hamā aun eno darhūg
And understood in a moment alonego syavilvāst dŭmā’n eno dūg
That your own life was to end on that daytān gvī syebădne in te dyēn
And that this journey was only one-waygo syenăbūrra păr tă revyēn.
  
"My little Janet it's over todayŌ mān Mīnele, mārdestāi in māy
Don't have the guts to be dying in Maybraukuar kŏurāy pŏll go părpŏll.
My little Janet, descending to hellŌ mān Mīnele, ussŭd ad to gentŭs
Would have been better in Winter's cold spell"ram gegī pyŏssavūa in ventŭs.
  
And while the rye would its ears to you lendGo zmenē to rān stodn' yă lăsnestāi
'Gainst your own shotgun your arms you would bendin to menăs tān gevren hăundnez,
'Gainst your own teeth came out words of defeatin to vehād melākāin hăundnez
Far too ice-cold to dissolve in the heatgefradūsvien im syemuldsyă in halāi.
  
Lying down buried in a field of ryeŬmusăz hamā in akor nă rān,
't's neither the rose's nor the tulip's eyenăsī to rōze, năsī to duilbān
Watching your sleep in the ditches' ol' bedsyegvĭllă tă ap n'hussāi to moken
But it's a thousand red poppies insteadal să hoyl paupagān drăken.


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